Tanksgiving

For three days in a row, the juicy, yet crispy, the strong, yet glorious smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle woke me from my tranquil beauty sleep. On this day, however, it was the odor of delicious turkey and gravy that swept into my nostrils to stir me. Finally “dinner” came at around five o’clock, and by then my mouth was watering as I smelled the meal. The plate before me was phenomenal; a perfect ratio of mashed potatoes to stuffing, leaving half the plate open to delicately cooked turkey and fluffy rolls. I could tell it was going to be a delectable feast; everything on my plate was white. No vegetables, no fruits, not even cranberry sauce. Flawless. However, the chunks of ham in the stuffing had to be sneakily removed before touching my sensitive taste buds. I did not want to be rude, but it was crucial to let them go. Sorry mom. Before I knew it, I was looking at a mere pile of mashed potatoes left on my plate. If I didn’t eat them, I thought, it would make my mother’s life more difficult by trying to scrape them off of the plate without scratching her favorite dishes. And being the kind, courteous person I am, I just had to eat them. As predicted, I ate them. No regrets. Dessert came, and I served myself perfectly rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream, but it felt bland. For someone who loves colors, every food that ever enters my mouth is white (well, sometimes colorful if we’re talking M&M’s). After digging for them in the back of the cabinet, nearly knocking everything over, I graciously added pizzazz to my ice cream. The rainbow sprinkles blanketed the scoops, leaving my family members in awe at the sight. The ice cream was hidden under the pool of sprinkles. The fact that I could undoubtedly and effortlessly consume such crap disgusted them. But, I ate it with ease and pleasure, getting every last color stuck in the gaps of my pearly whites.